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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22488718">Group Therapy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothssad/pseuds/gothssad'>gothssad</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shameless (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angry Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Car Accidents, Eventual Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Face Punching, Grief, Group Therapy, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Jealous Mickey Milkovich, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Ian Gallagher, Support Group</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 15:00:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,809</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22488718</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothssad/pseuds/gothssad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After losing his brother, Ian Gallagher decides to join a group therapy for the grieving families affected by the accident. Among the group, there happens to be the aggressive and rude Mickey Milkovich who tries to start a fight with anybody he can. Somehow, Mickey manages to bring feeling back into Ian's life, Ian guides Mickey into a healthier way of showing emotion, and they become a pair that nobody expected. Of course, the bumpy road doesn't end there. There are other hurdles in typical gallavich fashion: internalized homophobia, jealousy, and Terry Milkovich. Some other shit too.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Goodbye, Lip.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I’d never been to a funeral where I didn’t cry or throw a fit. I’d always known myself as somebody who feels emotion in their entirety, somebody who is consumed by their own rage or despair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> At Lip’s funeral though, I felt a sort of emptiness I had never felt before. It wasn’t nothing - it was less than nothing. Since those cops came to our door with that look of pity on their faces, I’ve felt like a ghost, or a robot, or anything else that’s less than a person. I’ve been going through the motions.  Getting the funeral shit together. I’d honestly rather lay in bed, staring at the wall all day, but Lip deserved a good service. Lip deserved so much more than he ever got.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The family decided to let me choose everything for the funeral. They knew what Lip meant to me, they knew I’d choose well. It was a closed casket, for obvious reasons. After the accident, he wasn’t really Lip anymore. He - and every other victim - was a mass of skin, blood and gore in a way that makes you question what humans really are. Beautiful on the outside, nothing but nature in its worst form on the inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I chose an ebony wood casket. There were Gladioli flowers - representing strength and character in life, which was definitely the sort of thing that described Lip.  It was a simple, small service. There were black wooden chairs, few, as we only invited our closest friends. I decided that we would have the funeral in the cemetery, if anything so it was cheaper. It felt more natural, anyway: holding Lip’s funeral in a church would have been a joke to him. I did blow all of my savings, even though I’m on unpaid mental health leave, but I would never have any regrets. There was only one chance to bury my big brother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Even Frank managed to be respectful. It was raining, and my nicest suit was getting ruined, but I didn’t care. As I stared into the reflection on the dark casket, I realized it didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My thoughts were interrupted by a tapping on the microphone.  Fiona was behind the wooden podium. She wore a plain black dress with lace on the sleeves, dark leggings underneath and black wedges. Her hair was put back into a bun, with strays popping out. I think there were tears welled up in her eyes, but it was hard to tell with the rain. What I could tell is that she looked like she hadn’t slept in days, which she probably hadn’t. I decided that Fiona was the best at speeches, she could put into words what my jumbled mind could never. Veronica stood with her, to hold a black umbrella above their heads.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, family and friends,” she said into the microphone with a shaky voice. I could see that she was trying not to crumble just yet. “Today, we are here to remember and celebrate the life of the cherished son, brother and friend, Phillip Ronan Gallagher,  better known as... Lip.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I could hear the sniffling and crying all around me. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiona looked out at us. “Lip was a fucking genius,” she chuckled sadly along with the small crowd, “And I don’t just mean with school, though he was pretty good at that too. I mean he really </span>
  <em>
    <span>got it</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He got what it meant to be alive. He knew what really mattered and he went for it. And yeah, he slipped a couple times. He had an awful bout of alcoholism that was pretty impossible to avoid, with our genetics. But he beat it. Because he was strong - I could never comprehend his strength. He was stronger than any of us. He would have made it. Despite all the odds, he would have made it. And that wouldn’t really matter too much to him either - ‘making it’, because he spent each day living so much that I think as he might look at us from whatever place he may or may not be at now, and he might think, ‘I don’t regret a fucking thing’, because I don’t think he would regret anything. He really lived. He wasn’t even thirty fucking years old, but Lip Gallagher lived in a way that none of us ever could. He was special... and he deserves to be sent out in a way that would show that even in the chaos of our lives, we saw him and respected him for the great man he became. If there is a heaven, and I fucking doubt it, but if there is, I hope he’s there, he’d deserve to be there. I hope he’s at peace. I hope he’s resting, finally.” And just then, I saw her bottom lip tremble, and I knew she’d had enough. Tears began dripping down her face, melding with the raindrops. V squeezed her arm reassuringly. “Thank you,” she said into the microphone, and moved her eyes to find me. “Ian?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was my turn to talk. I felt like my shoes were filled with cement as I stepped up to the podium. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I did have it planned out in my head, what I would say, but as I saw all the sad faces staring up at me: Debbie; Carl; Frank; Kevin; Liam who was crying quite a bit; Franny who seemed shocked by the situation she was too young to understand; the others from Lip’s AA group; his friends from university… my mind went blank. Instead, I said what I knew. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was always jealous of Lip. He was the smart one, the prized child... as prized as a Gallagher can be. I was something very insignificant in comparison. But Lip taught me that he didn’t want to be the prized child, that it was a burden, and that we don’t always like what we are. In that way, I related to him. I stopped being jealous. And now, as I look at that coffin, I’m jealous again, because it is a sick joke from the universe that Lip Gallagher would deserve to be dead at 25 years old. And I would do anything to change places with him. It may sound weird, because he was only a couple years older than me, but he was the man I really looked up to in my life. Even as a kid, I wanted to do whatever Lip was doing. He was all I could ever aspire to be. He was the guy who taught me how to deal with bullies, how to deal with girls, and then, guys. He had my back, and he pretended he wasn’t, but he really was wise. He knew what to say to fix any shit that I’d gotten myself into. He was my hero. He was my big brother, and nobody could ever replace him. Our family will <em>never</em> be the same without him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stepped away from the microphone. Fiona hugged me tightly. I hugged back, but my mind was still not there, not in the hug, not in the funeral. It was nowhere. There was nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did great,” she whispered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Debbie, Carl, Frank, Veronica and Kevin spoke as well. None of them spoke as much as Fiona and I, but I don’t think they knew what to say. Debbie and Carl were quiet and heartfelt. Frank spewed his usual bullshit, acting as if he knew Lip at all, but I could tell that he wished he meant it. Kev and V gently shined a light on the situation. And then somebody I hadn’t had much experience with came to the podium - Lip’s friend Brad. He looked like he decided to come last minute, like he hadn’t showered and his hair was a mess. I didn’t blame him. He spoke about how Lip’s determination to work and his casual kindness made the workplace a really positive environment. He spoke about how Lip was passionate and strong and took no shit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiona stepped back to the podium once Brad was done. “Thank you, Brad. And thank you all… for coming today. You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>all </span>
  </em>
  <span>people that Lip cherished in his life in one way or another. I believe that now we will commence the burial… and the fireworks.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was the last thing I decided. Lip was more important than New Years or the Fourth of July. He deserved fireworks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiona, Debbie, Carl, Frank and I all stood with the coffin as Kevin and Brad lit the fireworks. We carried the weight of the coffin to the booming sound. We set it into the ground gently, and lifted our heads to see the colourful explosions light up the night sky. Green, red, blue, purple, all so bright and fizzling into nothingness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beer?” Carl said to me, holding out a bottle. He passed one to everyone else, they all wiped away their tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And we all sat on the cold cemetery grass, drinking our beer, until the fireworks had run out, and it was time to go home. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The First Meeting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I sat alone in Jolene’s office. She had calming knickknacks of all sorts - small stuffed animals, lava lamps, essential oil diffusers, blankets, stress balls, and a toy corner for her younger patients. I sat on a brown recliner that was far too comfortable. It reminded me of the memory foam mattresses I’d seen on TV. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jolene had been my therapist since I was 17, when I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder. It was luck that she was also a certified grief counselor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was busy today, which was why I was waiting alone, but she would be there any minute. I checked my phone. She was fifteen minutes late. And then I saw the date, January 3rd, which meant it was exactly two months since the accident. I still felt… absolutely nothing. Fuck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a thought in the back of my head that ate more and more at me with each day that passed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I could stop taking my meds.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I could feel again. I could feel like I’m on top of the world. And yeah, maybe I’d feel the opposite of that too. But at least it was something. I knew that I was still sick, romanticizing my disorder, making it out to be something that could be something better than how I was feeling. I knew that, but I couldn’t stop it. And really, I was so ill that I didn’t want to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So sorry I’m late,” Jolene rushed into her office and dropped a large pile of papers on her desk. She was a very put-together woman. She wore a pearl necklace, black trench-coat that was tied around her waist, her hair perfectly curled, her lipstick fresh. Her shiny, dark nurse shoes tapped loudly on the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s okay. What’s that for?” I asked, referring to the papers. Usually, the only thing she brought to our meetings was a clipboard with ‘Ian Gallagher’ written at the top of each sheet. She sat down on her leather, rolling office chair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s for you, actually,” she said with a lopsided smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>My stomach fell. My mind immediately went to inpatient. I suppose my face fell too, because she noticed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, no, don’t worry. It’s nothing bad,” she reassured me, “Actually, I think it’s great. A bunch of therapists and I have decided to make a support group for the families of the victims of the accident.” She couldn’t hold back a hopeful smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was shocked. My immediate response was no, absolutely not. I’ve never been somebody to share my deepest feelings with a bunch of strangers unless it was for a cause or because I couldn’t hold it in anymore. But I thought for a second more – and I realized I had nothing to lose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don't want to go?” Jolene inquired worriedly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I shook my head. “I do. I didn’t think I did but… I’ll go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled widely. “That’s great, Ian! Thank you. I think it will be so good for you,” she explained genuinely, “It will show you how everybody else is grieving and that your response is normal.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was happy for me, she thought this could finally be a breakthrough for me. I was already wondering if I made the wrong decision. I thought about everything that could go wrong. I thought about how vulnerable I’d be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jolene and I didn’t really have much more interesting conversations after that. How was I feeling? I don’t know. Was I taking my meds? Yes. What was it like at home? Fine. Was I getting much support from family? They tried, but they were busy, and they were hurting too. It was the same every week. I wish I had more to offer, because even in her calm, understanding, therapist state, I could see the situation was frustrating for her. The last thing she said was that she would make sure I didn’t have to pay for the whole hour. And then I was on the way home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How was it?” Fiona asked as I got inside. She was cutting a sandwich she’d just made herself. She set it down for me. “Here, I’ll just make another one,” she smiled. Fiona tried to be helpful and warm when she was home. She knew I wouldn’t really take care of myself in this state. I appreciated it, but I was unresponsive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” I said somewhat guiltily and sat down at the counter. “It was alright. Jolene says that there’s going to be a, uh... support group for the families.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” Fiona asked, looking at me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, she wants me to go. She thinks it could be good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fiona nodded and put a couple of pickle slices on her new pieces of bread. “Do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to go?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I breathed in heavily. “I don’t know. I should, right? But talking about it… with a ton of strangers. Most of them won’t be from the south side too. What could I talk about without them like, fucking calling the cops or CPS?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think those meetings are confidential, Ian. Mourning people won’t be worrying about your shit,” she thought for a second, “Fuck, maybe I should go,” she laughed with an edge of sadness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I nodded and bit into my sandwich. Ham and cheese. “Maybe you should.”</span>
</p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The room they rented out for the meetings was kind-looking. There was fresh coffee, cookies, fruit. And a bunch of chairs in a circle, like you’d expect. A dark purple carpet and nicely painted beige walls. There were a couple of paintings, one of mountains and trees, one of a clock tower, one of wolves in a pop-art sort of style. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this cookie raisin, do you think?” A thin young woman with black hair asked me as I was pouring my coffee. I studied the cookie she held out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Definitely raisin,” I answered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gross.” She put it back and grabbed a gingerbread cookie. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rest of the group was already sitting in the circle, biting their nails, twiddling their thumbs. I sat down in one of the empty seats; there were a few of them, I guessed they were expecting more to show. The black-haired woman sat next to me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” an anxious 30-or-so-year-old brunette man began, a couple of seats away from me. “I guess we’ll start then. I’m Jeremiah, and I will be leading the group. Well– no, I hope you all will lead the group and I will be more of a mediator. There is one thing that unites all of you; you have all lost somebody to a very unfortunate and tragic accident. And I hope with the support of each other, you may all slowly heal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A couple of people were already crying. Everybody looked miserable, which was just what I expected. I didn’t expect it to be so bleak, though. I was hoping for a united front, maybe, but we were all just broken people. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How about we go around the circle, introduce ourselves, and say why we’re here, what we hope to come from the group?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to his left, to the black-haired woman, who started it for all of us. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Lola,” she said, and nodded to the group. She wasn’t crying, or showing much of anything, but I could see the pain. “I guess I’m here to stop feeling so shit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A couple people nodded sympathetically. It was my turn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Ian,” I announced to the group. I took a gulp, and a leap of faith, and decided to be honest. “I’m here to try and feel something again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I turned to the man beside me, an older man with a beer-belly. “I’m John. I’m here to find a reason to stop thinking about it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A crying, 40s-something woman with dyed red hair was next. “I’m Marie. I’m here to stop crying.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Next was… a man about my age who stuck out like a sore thumb. He had short black hair, tattoos on his arms and hands. He wore a brown shirt with messily cut off sleeves, jeans that were frayed at the ends, and clunky black boots. That wasn’t what really stuck out though - what really stuck out was that he looked… angry. He looked like he’d just heard the most ridiculous thing. He raised his eyebrows. “I’m Mickey,” he said, still looking with judgment at the rest of the group. “Fuck, I don’t know. My sister died, in that fucking accident, like the rest of you. That’s why I’m fuckin’... here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sat back and started biting his nails. The rest of the group began to readjust in their seats uncomfortably as they tried not to look at him. He was like a wild animal - pretend he’s not there and he’ll ignore you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next boy, who looked like a teenager actually, had to shake himself out of staring at Mickey in shock. “I’m Ronnie. I’m here because my therapist told me to.” Ronnie was a dirty blonde who had tear stains on his cheeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, a young blonde woman who was also staring at Mickey in shock, was the last in the circle. “I’m Amy. I’m here because coming to this meeting is the first time I’ve gotten out of bed since the funeral.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, everybody,” Jeremiah nodded at the group. “As you can see, you’re all here today because you’re dealing with the same trauma and grief. You’re all coping in different ways, which is </span>
  <em>
    <span>okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>. To further this, for our first meeting, I think we should talk about who we’ve lost and be honest about how it has affected our lives and our well-being until this point. I would like to remind everybody that we must respect each other, and to keep confidential everything that is said in this room. You may pass if you don’t feel comfortable talking. Amy,” he turned to the blonde, “How about you go first?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, sure,” she answered shyly. “I lost my grandmother in the accident. She was more like my mom though. My mom was always pretty busy, and since I was a kid, I’ve spent most of my time at grammy’s house. She was like any other grandmother, in some ways, with the cookies and cakes and knitting, but in other ways, she acted like she was just as old as me. She made me who I am today, and now, without her-” tears were forming in her eyes, “I’m home alone all the time, and I don’t want to do anything,” her words were becoming less discernible with the tears. Ronnie awkwardly patted her on the back in an attempt to comfort her. “I just lay in bed all day, hoping tomorrow will be different, but it never is, because grammy isn’t coming back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It sounds like your grandmother was more of a best friend, Amy,” Jeremiah pointed out thoughtfully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, she was.” Amy nodded and smiled as more tears ran down her face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d like everybody to thank Amy for being so honest about her experience.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everybody said ‘thank you, Amy’. Everybody except Mickey, who looked more bored by the second. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ronnie? Do you mind going next?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ronnie gulped anxiously. “I lost my baby sister in the accident. Well, she wasn’t a baby anymore, she was twelve. And I don’t know, I feel so awful about it, because I always acted so awful to her. We always fought about nothing, useless stuff, and I actually really loved-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,” a voice interrupted. It was Mickey. We all turned. “What is this gonna solve? Whining about shit we went through? The </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>is that gonna help anyone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nobody answered. I felt a spark of something in my chest, in my fists. Anger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please calm down and respect the rest of the group-” Jeremiah tried to help the situation, but he looked more afraid than anybody. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Calm down?!” Mickey shouted at Jeremiah and stood. “We’re all fucking crying about how we lost somebody. You know what? That ain’t gonna fix shit,” he turned to the rest of the group, “They’re still fucking dead. And the only thing that’ll make it go away is a fucking bottle, and if you’re lucky, a nice quickie in the bathroom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I stood. Out of instinct, out of anger.  I felt so enraged that he had the audacity to yell at a group of people who were mourning like that. Lola tried to stop me, but I shook her off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off,” I confronted him, put my finger to his chest, “These people are mourning and you’re being a disrespectful piece of shit. Ruin lives on your own time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiled, sarcastically impressed, and raised his eyebrows. “Oh, you the fucking hero here? It’s not my fault you’re all listening to this fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>pussy’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> self-help bullshit,” he gestured to Jeremiah. “Look, like three of you are already crying, how is this helping you? Huh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I clenched my jaw. The heat of the anger was taking over every thought I had. And honestly, I loved it. The rush of finally feeling something. Even if it was the feeling that I wanted to kick this guy’s teeth out. I held back. “Leave. Nobody wants you here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head at me, still with that shit-eating grin. And then he hit me, square in the face. I was sent to the ground, with nothing but the feeling of pain and blood pouring from my nose. “Fuck, Jesus,” was all I was able to get out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spat on me. “Don’t fuckin’ worry about it. I’m out of here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as the door slammed shut, Lola and Jeremiah came to my aid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m okay, I’m fine,” I told them, stunned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’d gotten more than a few bloody noses in my time, but this one... was a shock. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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